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So, in an attempt to move everything along, Iapos;ve been going through and seperating.�Yes.Still.
Tonights item, a few more pictures and a lot of journals. The journals are a few years old, which isnapos;t helpful. I�love the person who wrote them, but sheapos;s not here anymore. I fool myself into thinking she is, but the shell of her body is cold and mean. Death wouldapos;ve been easier to understand. My torment is my own fault right now, loving an image time was bound to see through.
My ex, and I�donapos;t know what to think about it, has told me within the past month that our oldest child is probably not mine. Sheapos;s insistant that thereapos;s a 50/50 chance. Her baby pictures all match the other two children, she has my eyes, and a lot of my features. Itapos;s an obvious lie to everyone around me. It is to me too, in front of people. Thereapos;s so much more then they know about my ex though. The things Iapos;ve seen her to, and know sheapos;s capable of. Iapos;ve seen her face turn to stone, Iapos;ve seen the emotion go right out of her. So, my fear is that she is capable, and she may have done the unspeakable like sheapos;s indicated.
Tonightapos;s find may have helped this. Apparently, she kept a journal about trying to get pregnant. Starting in May of apos;02, continuing, well Iapos;m not sure how long, I�was interupted while reading it.
At that time in our life we were working opposite shifts. To me, it was going good. The only time we fought was concerning money. Her spending too much of it, without telling me. We had a nice apartment, well furnished, and made our bills every month. For a while the fights were only a reason to make up. I�never minded her spending money the way she did, it made her happy, and that was my only concern for the longest time. Only recently did I�truly think about my own happiness, and thatapos;s when things went south. I�feel, and this is my opinion thereapos;s two sides to every story, that once I�focused on my own happiness she began to resent me. Jealousy, yes, always. But it was more than that, it was her not having my 100 undivided attention.
She says I�couldnapos;t give her what she needed, so she found it somewhere else. I�have a terrible memory. But the journal sparked somethings. The things she said was going on at the time, her not getting what she needed. Those things happened, but they happened the year prior to this one. At our apartment, things were good. After reading the journal, I�also realize that our pregnancy was not unplanned. At least by one of us. It was deliberate. Which I�hold no grudges about, sheapos;s always had her own agenda. It never bothered me because Iapos;m the type that needs a little push on things that scare me. She pushed me into our marriage. I�didnapos;t object, I�wanted it too, but Iapos;m the perfectionist type. Things take me a while, I�always settle. Itapos;s not that things arenapos;t good, or great even. Itapos;s that Iapos;m always striving for things to be perfect before proceeding. Iapos;m learning to let that go now, and accept things for what they are, almost.
The writing style in the journal is not of someone who was having an affair. Itapos;s calm, collected, and well thought out. Thereapos;s no scratches, no slips about another man. Itapos;s not something that would say affair at all. And, as I remember it, she wasnapos;t the scheming kind at that time of our life. It was not written by someone who was guilty. This all relieves me, and scares me at the same time. Because in the back of my mind, the places I donapos;t like to go because all the bad thoughts dwell there. In that spot, is this scared little boy who tells me that the guilt sheapos;s been feeling is what started all of this. He says she is capable, and he doesnapos;t want to even think about it. So he sits in the dark corner, scared, trying not to cry and draw attention to himself.

Geez, am I a nut job or what?
This isnapos;t getting easier, the journal is making me realize how bad I really am too. Iapos;m not stopping yet though, Iapos;m just hoping for a light at the end of the tunnel.

Peace out bitches
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